She leans dramatically against one of the thick wooden posts that jut up along the dock’s seaside edge. Her hands hang from the hook of her thumbs in either side of her jean pockets, the picture of leisure with her head tilted just enough to obscure her eyeline under the brim of her pale hat. A peppermint stick rolls from one end of her mouth to the other every so often, the chew an act of defiance, and perhaps the only subtle tic giving away the unease that’s actually brimming beneath her surface calm. Well, maybe the only thing that’d give her away to the ordinary man anyway, not expecting any telepaths, much less the wrong one.
Golden strands of hair lift in small ribbons with the sea breeze, the same one that’s gathering the storm clouds overhead, the rain kind enough to just drizzle once in a while and not dump, though it doesn’t seem the kindness means to hold all day. Her tan duster is pulled up high on her neck, under the spill of her loose hair, to keep back the worst of the wind that ripples over the water.
Ahead of her, a nervous courier is flitting about the dock, yelling orders back and forth amongst the men who seem to be a handful of goat ranchers confidently disobedient to the mailman’s demands, and some rogue passersby who felt they couldn’t miss this sight and opted to help as an excuse to linger. Between the men, a herd of goats, a very large herd of goats, meanders without hurry. Cloven hooves are already making their steady way up the gangplank to where the Ark is anchored, and the only thing that leads the small sound of their clips and clops would be their boisterous baaing. Trails of piss darken the wood in their wake, and round nuggets of shit scatter like the devil’s candy, painting the trail they've already made to here.
Golden strands of hair lift in small ribbons with the sea breeze, the same one that’s gathering the storm clouds overhead, the rain kind enough to just drizzle once in a while and not dump, though it doesn’t seem the kindness means to hold all day. Her tan duster is pulled up high on her neck, under the spill of her loose hair, to keep back the worst of the wind that ripples over the water.
Ahead of her, a nervous courier is flitting about the dock, yelling orders back and forth amongst the men who seem to be a handful of goat ranchers confidently disobedient to the mailman’s demands, and some rogue passersby who felt they couldn’t miss this sight and opted to help as an excuse to linger. Between the men, a herd of goats, a very large herd of goats, meanders without hurry. Cloven hooves are already making their steady way up the gangplank to where the Ark is anchored, and the only thing that leads the small sound of their clips and clops would be their boisterous baaing. Trails of piss darken the wood in their wake, and round nuggets of shit scatter like the devil’s candy, painting the trail they've already made to here.
Colt
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
